


With Shortness of Breath, I’ll Explain the Infinite

by vargrimar



Series: The Chambers and the Valves [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Falling In Love, M/M, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Season/Series 02, and you know falling off a building
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:35:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22822657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vargrimar/pseuds/vargrimar
Summary: Perhaps such a decision wouldn’t have ever needed to be made if he hadn’t discovered the fluttery thing trapped under his skin with all its incorrect connotations concerning sentiment, but discover it he had, and so there is a weight in his chest and a pulse in his veins and a thrum in his ears, and although he might blame the limbic system and all its frustrating inconveniences for his predicament, it does not and will not negate data, reality, or truth.All three of which being that he… cares.He cares a great deal.And it’s a bit startling, really, now that he faces the depth of it from a rooftop ledge.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: The Chambers and the Valves [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1640680
Comments: 2
Kudos: 36





	With Shortness of Breath, I’ll Explain the Infinite

**Author's Note:**

> (how rare and beautiful it truly is that we exist)
> 
> so! fun fact: there were originally supposed to be two 'chapters' between Repetition Sings (installment three) and this. one of the chapters was to detail things going on with the episode centring on Irene (and how very gay sherlock is), and the other was supposed to depict a snapshot scene in Baskerville with the boys lounging in front of the fire and sherlock being horribly broody and lovesick.
> 
> they were gonna be so good but they never actually translated from the super vivid images living in my head into the proper word-things they were supposed to be, so unfortunately you actually gotta use your imagination there and visualise how awesome those scenes would've been (complete with our ongoing heart-throb motif) for about, uhhh, maybe 2k-4k words between the both of them? something like that. okay? okay. just humour a guy, huh?

John looks so small down below.

It’s a bit new, this smallness. It has nothing to do with posture, bone structure, or genetics. Nothing to do with insignificance, either, because John is nothing if not significant. Instead, it’s all angles and distance, lines racing toward a vanishing point; smallness in the literal sense. Standing solitary on the asphalt, John is _small_ , small as if he’s an entire universe away, shoved into his own unique microcosm fitted between the pavement and the thick, white-painted _AMBULANCE ONLY_ lettering boxed just by his feet—a space just for John and John alone.

And John must be kept in that space. He must be tethered. Confined. Contained.

Because to anyone else, John is just another passerby in his dark jacket and charcoal jumper and old denims and pale grey button-down. To anyone else, John is an unimportant individual chatting on his mobile outside Bart’s. To anyone else, John is nothing and no one with no real purpose.

But to the gunman tucked away in an adjacent building somewhere in the immediate vicinity, John is a primary target.

The cold, chlorine-soaked memory wells up at the back of Sherlock’s mouth as he talks: clusters of vivid red like lucent candied cherries, all amassing together in a jagged waltz across the broad expanse of John’s very vulnerable chest. The breathy shudder of lungs imprints on him with something more permanent than ink. He remembers the determined look in John’s eyes, fierce and certain, eclipsing Moriarty’s expectant smile, and he remembers the unspoken words sailing the chemically treated currents between them, _Are you ready?_ with its companion answer, _Always_ , accompanied by a curt nod.

A well-timed phone call will not be his saviour today. That particular mantle now falls to Mycroft and Molly.

It will, however, be John’s. He knows John doesn’t like it (because even he doesn’t like it; he hates the idea, hates it, abhors it, abhors the lies he’s telling; John, please, it’s for your own good), but keeping John away will ensure his safety, and that is of the greatest importance. He can’t allow the stationed gunmen to fulfil Moriarty’s threat. Life without them (without Mrs Hudson, without Lestrade, without _John_ ) would be awful and hollow and empty, completely unbearable in every sense, and if that were to happen—

No. No, it won’t happen. It won’t happen because he cannot and will not place the value of one life over the value of three. He can’t. He simply can’t. He just isn’t capable. The heart in him protests in its language of stuttering palpitations and inexplicable tightness at the very thought.

Perhaps such a decision wouldn’t have ever needed to be made if he hadn’t discovered the fluttery thing trapped under his skin with all its incorrect connotations concerning sentiment, but discover it he had, and so there is a weight in his chest and a pulse in his veins and a thrum in his ears, and although he might blame the limbic system and all its frustrating inconveniences for his predicament, it does not and will not negate data, reality, or truth.

All three of which being that he… cares.

He cares a great deal.

And it’s a bit startling, really, now that he faces the depth of it from a rooftop ledge.

He can’t say how it happened. It isn’t as if it had been a bright, brilliant moment where all of the disjointed pieces had come crashing together into a sound solution he could dictate to yet another awaiting forum. Rather, it seems like it had been more of a slow growth, like the ashy fuzz of mould sprouting up from decay. It must have crept and crawled its way through him, using his veins like vines until he had been thoroughly infected by its spores.

Even now, even as he stands atop Saint Bart’s and tells John that everything has been naught but a magic trick, he feels unsteady with the knowledge. Despite his caustic personality and the asperity of his demeanour and his indifference to the human condition and his best efforts to drive others away (because _alone protects me_ , alone and no one else), three people who have impacted his life for the better have barged their way in through some means or another, giving him purpose and function beyond his continuous flight from stagnation, and he has come to care for them, _care_ for them—madly.

_Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock._

Contrary to what Mycroft believes, that is not a lesson he must be taught. He already knows caring isn’t an advantage. He has known since he was a boy, since his talents and idiosyncrasies arose; he has known for two decades and the better part of a third. Allowing oneself to invest in the wellbeing of another person to such extremes can only open oneself to any number of vulnerabilities, and this entire ordeal has been a constant stream of supporting evidence from start to bloody finish.

Because Moriarty has, true to his word, burnt him. He has smeared Sherlock’s name, alienated his colleagues, sown distrust in his closest friend. Moriarty has systematically attacked and destroyed every facet of his life with ease, leaving Sherlock little choice but to play into his well-orchestrated trap, and all because of three specific chinks in his armour—John being the biggest one of all.

Phantom frisson burrows into the cores of his feet, his palms.

The ground below beckons.

“It’s what people do, don’t they?” he asks. “Leave a note.”

There is an abortive movement: John drops the mobile from his ear only to press it back again. Sherlock recognises the indecision, the restlessness; John is a man of action, and the compulsion to charge forward still cords through him ( _no, all right, stop it now_ ) because as far as John is concerned, this calls for intervention. John thinks this is suicide spurred by exposure and guilt, though he struggles to swallow the lies Sherlock has given him, and that calls to the latent caretaking nature settled under the rigid military exterior, nestled like the Earth’s mantle down beneath its crust. The impulse is there, revealed in his half-started steps and the tension in his body (Sherlock knows it well)—save, save, _save_.

“Leave a note when?” says John. The distance prevents Sherlock from discerning the details of John’s face, but he can read his expression in his voice: worried, fearful, disbelieving.

God, Sherlock thinks, his chest gone terribly tight. What have I ever done to deserve you?

“Goodbye, John,” he says.

I’m sorry, he doesn’t say.

“No.”

You’ve already saved me once, he doesn’t say.

“Don’t—”

Now I must return the favour.

Sherlock lets his hand fall away from his ear, releasing John’s plea to the open air. He tosses his mobile onto the rooftop behind him. It meets concrete with a sharp clatter. Wetness stings in the corner of each eye, and he blinks it away as he watches John on the street below.

Caring is not an advantage. Caring softens the heart, muddles the mind, distorts all priority. Caring exposes _weakness_.

But God help him—Sherlock cares for John.

And John must be kept alive. No matter the cost, John Watson must be kept alive.

Sherlock leaps from the roof of Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital, heart exposed for all the world to see.


End file.
